


Sweets

by R00bs_Teacup



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Adoption, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Babies, Children, Fluff, M/M, Romance, prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2016-04-28
Packaged: 2018-06-04 23:33:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6680422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For 1veryskepticalgecko who prompted me on Tumblr: Modern AU, Porthos meets single Dad Aramis (and his adopted! baby) and much love, baby vomit and mad passion was to be had! </p><p>There is no baby vomit, but there is drool and nappies and lots of baby stuff? They're quite parent-y. Porthos is a story-teller and Aramis is a Dad. Athos makes appearances and is ace and grossed out and shocked by Aramis and Porthos talking about sex. He drops a lot of things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweets

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: adoption, fear of peope leaving, panic attack-ish thing, perscription drugs. There’s not nearly as much angst as I expected in this, all situations are in passing really.

“… and then, he couldn't help himself. Do you know what he did? He turned around,” Porthos says, hiding his grin in a dramatic expression when the little girl right at the front gasps. “I know. Yeah. But, the thing is, do you remember right at the beginning when I told you this wasn't the usual story? I told you right at the start that this little girl was brave and clever, like most children. See, he turned around, but before the Gods could snatch her back, she had put those slippers to good use. She ran. Right past him and out the big doors.”

 

“She ex- caped!”

 

“Yeah, you know it. Now, the Gods didn't like that, but there wasn't much they could do. They did the only thing they could- they took him, instead of her. And that, little cubs, is how curiosity can be both a blessing and a curse.”

 

Porthos sits back, waiting for the inevitable questions. There are always questions. There's quiet for a minute, then a small boy at the back puts his hand up. Porthos gives him a nod, and they're off. It's the last story, so when the little sea of hands is done, Porthos gets up from the stool and gets ready to answer the parents' questions. He gets a lot of compliments, today. He grins when he spots Aramis, Porthos' favourite regular. Every Saturday, like clockwork, Aramis shows up with his baby.

 

“Hullo,” Porthos says, leaning over to get a look at the little sleeping face, touching her cheek. “She's happy today.”

 

“Napping, thank God,” Aramis says. “I liked that one. You should tell it more often. Where's it from?”

 

“Made it up. Bits of stuff, lots of Eurydice and Orpheus,” Porthos says. “Just a tiny bit of the Matrix.”

 

Aramis laughs, and, as he has every Saturday, invites Porthos for coffee. Porthos checks his watch, and, as he has every Saturday, regretfully declines. It's not that he doesn't want to say yes. He very, very much does. Aramis is absolutely lovely, and even when he turns up exhausted with bits of sick on him and his hair a bird's nest, he still looks exquisite. But, Porthos has to run. He gives Aramis a wave, and jogs down the library stairs to the entrance, jamming his helmet on his head. He only has ten minutes to get to work, and he can't be late again.

* * *

 

**

 

Porthos gets a cold over the week. He goes to the library anyway, thinking up stories that'll work with a croaky voice and congestion. He checks with the librarian that he's not going to be spreading lurgy around, but she points out that he probably picked it up from the kids.

 

“It's being passed around at the moment,” she says, smiling. “If you feel up to it, everyone looks forward to your stories.”

 

“Yeah, sure, long as I'm not putting people in danger. I'm happy enough,” Porthos says, smiling back, stifling the tickle in his throat.

 

He pops down to the newsagents to get a bottle of water, then makes himself a mug of tea, spooning lots of honey in. He takes his seat and clears his throat a few times, then bends his head, and waits for the kids to sit around him. There are a few giggles, as they settle, and then quiet. Someone giggles again, a little nervously, and someone whispers. Porthos hums.

 

“Once upon a time there was a giant,” he croaks, lifting his head and looking around.

 

It goes well. Everyone just accepts that stories about giants need a special voice, and he only coughs twice. He accidentally scares one of the younger kids, but afterwards she comes up to him and he crouches to talk to her.

 

“What's up, cub?” Porthos says.

 

The kid whispers to her big brother, who's knelt beside her, and he grins.

 

“Mara wants t'know if _you're_ a giant,” he says.

 

Mara nods solemnly, looking at him wide eyed. Porthos grins.

 

“Why, you think I'll eat you?” he asks, bearing his teeth. She shrieks and hides behind her brother. “Nah, I ain't hungry. Yet.”

 

She kicks him in the shin, which Porthos supposes he deserves, and then runs off. Porthos raises an apologetic hand to her mother, who just smiles and waves. Aramis, standing off to the side, starts to laugh. He's got the baby out of the sling, today, and she's awake, gazing around, head lolling on Aramis' arm. Porthos straightens up and tries to glower.

 

“So, you are a giant, then?” Aramis asks, coming over.

 

“Maybe,” Porthos croaks, swallowing painfully. He needs another cup of tea. He gulps down some water, instead, as his mug is long-ago empty.

 

“Did the giant voice do that to you?” Aramis asks, laughing again.

 

“Nah, got a cold,” Porthos says, turning to cough into his elbow.

 

“Oh. Um… I should...” Aramis indicates the baby, face clouding.

 

“She'll prob'ly be fine, all the kids have it,” a woman says, coming up. “Don't worry so much, Aramis. If you bring her out, she'll be around germs. It's good for her immune system.”

 

“So you tell me,” Aramis says. “Um, Porthos, Constance.”

 

“Nice to meet you,” Porthos says, coughing again.

 

“You sound rough,” Constance says. “My husband had it last week and he was a right baby about it, worse'n my charges.”

 

“She's a nanny,” Aramis says.

 

“Right,” Porthos says.

 

“I would offer you coffee, but you never say yes, and I'm not sure I believe Constance about your cold being fine and dandy for Izzy.”

 

Porthos, who'd been rather looking forward to being able to say 'yes' for once, accepts that with as much dignity as he can. He should probably go home and rest, anyway. He shrugs into his coat, and glances out of the window. Of course it's raining. He sighs.

 

“Constance tells me that was rude,” Aramis says, coming up again.

 

“Not particularly,” Porthos says.

 

“Would you like to go for coffee? I don't think it'll do her any harm. Just try not to cough on her,” Aramis says. “She's still only little.”

 

“How old is she?”

 

“Six months, tomorrow. She was three months when I got her,” Aramis says, beaming. “Look at her.  No, don't, you might cough on her. Coffee?”

 

“Wouldn't mind a cup of tea,” Porthos says.

 

“You're saying yes?”

 

“I usually work, after, but…” Porthos shrugs, indicating his general state of being.

 

“Isn't this your work?”

 

Porthos laughs, leading Aramis down to street level. He heads for his favourite café, which has a fire and good tea and honey, and where they'll give him an extra spoon or two if he looks pathetic enough. Aramis has an umbrella, which he lets Porthos share. He has Izzy in the pram, with a plastic cover.

 

“You're not a story-teller, then?” Aramis asks.

 

“Nope. Just volunteer. Actually volunteered to do story-time, which used to just be reading aloud. They let me make stuff up, though, now.”

 

“What do you do, then? I assumed this was your profession. You're very good.”

 

“Wanted to be an actor, for a while.”

 

“What stopped you being that?”

 

“Reality. I work at Tesco.”

 

“Oh. Glamorous.”

 

“It pays the bills. You?”

 

“I'm on leave, for a year, to look after this little one,” Aramis says, beaming. “I'm a university chaplain. I've been waiting for my baby for years, I'm just focussing on being the best Dad I can be, right now.”

 

“Right. Is there a mum in the picture?”

 

“I keep asking you out, what do you think? No. I adopted her.”

 

“Oh. Yeah, you said three months,” Porthos says, unable to keep from smiling. “That's lovely.”

 

“Not really. I needed her much as she needed me. Izzy's mine, same as if I'd knocked someone up. I got to name her and everything.”

 

Porthos holds the café door open for Aramis, and works on looking pathetic and bedraggled to wheedle extra honey. He stays quiet until they're set up by the fire, and Izzy's out in Aramis' lap. She's staring at Porthos, chewing on Aramis' finger and drooling everywhere.

 

“She's teething,” Aramis says.

 

Porthos drinks his tea, and listens to Aramis talk about babies. Porthos doesn't mind. He likes babies well enough. He holds Izzy for a bit, and gets drooled on. He tells Aramis about the play he saw last week, and they talk about theatre for a while. When Porthos looks at his watch, he realises they've been there for three hours. Izzy is asleep, cradled in Aramis' arm. Porthos isn't actually that far behind her, what with the fire, and Aramis' soothing voice. He has a very nice voice. Porthos hums, eyes heavy.

 

“Do you want a ride home? I have the car today,” Aramis says.

 

“Huh?”

 

“You look about four fifths of the way asleep.”

 

“Oh. Yeah, I am a bit. No, thank you though. I'll walk, it's not far.”

 

“It's raining, and you're sick. I can hear your breath rasping from here, your chest sounds awful. If you don't want me to know where you live I understand, but you're going to have to actually come out and say it or I'll bug you until you give in.”

 

“It's not that,” Porthos says. “Don't wanna put you out.”

 

Aramis gets up and puts the baby in the pushchair, then just waits until Porthos gets up too and follows after him. He starts to cough when they get outside, the change in temperature setting him off. He flops down into Aramis' car and leans on the window, too tired to protest any more.

 

“You sound horrible. Are you sure it's just a cold? I don't want Izzy to catch the plague or something,” Aramis says, starting the engine. “You'll need to direct me.”

 

“Just a cold, they always go to my chest. I had pnuemonia too many times when I was a kid,” Porthos says.

 

Aramis follows Porthos into his flat, when they arrive, and plonks Izzy on top of him on the sofa so he can't move. No one else is home, which Porthos is glad of. Athos would have given him an awful look for bringing strangers in. Aramis settles a blanket over them, then goes to the kitchen and bangs around for a bit. Izzy wakes up and Porthos entertains her by croaking Incy Wincy Spider a few times. It brings Aramis through.

 

“Hello nene,” Aramis says, scooping Izzy up and lifting her over his head.

 

She laughs and kicks and Aramis flies her through the air. Porthos coughs, burying his head in the blankets.

 

“I made you lemon and honey,” Aramis says, going to get a steaming mug. “It's hot. I should probably go, but I'm not sure about leaving you on your own.”

 

“Someone'll be home at some point,” Porthos mutters, sniffing at the mug. He can't smell anything. He's too congested.

 

“Are your housemates people who'll look after you?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I can stay until they arrive.”

 

Porthos imagines the look on Athos' face on finding a baby in the house, and considers it for entertainment value, then remembers the last time Athos found a randomer here and starts working on persuading Aramis to leave. To be fair, last time the randomer had been naked and quite high. Athos, of course, gets home before Aramis leaves. He stares at Izzy, eyes going very wide, then he glares at Porthos, eyes going very narrow.

 

“I'll be off then,” Aramis says, looking far too amused. Porthos sighs, and waves him out. And sneezes.

 

“Oh. You're sick,” Athos says.

 

“Yup.”

 

“Who was that?”

 

“Aramis.”

 

“The one you fancy? Oh. Okay. At least he wasn't naked. Why aren't you in bed? Are you going to cough all over the living-room? I rather wanted to watch telly, not listen to you hacking.”

 

“You're all heart, Athos,” Porthos grumbles. Then he coughs.

 

Athos sighs, but slides himself under Porthos' head and strokes his hair and makes him drink the lemon and honey and finds him water and babies him until Porthos is a blissed out, medicated puddle.

 

**

 

Porthos is still coughing the next week, but he's otherwise fine. He tells a story about a dragon who has a cold, which leads to accidental scorchings. It makes everyone laugh, which is good. Aramis leaves right after, and Porthos stretches, back cracking, feeling a bit fed up. Athos hasn't been well, and Porthos is tired from looking after him.

 

“Coffee?” The question startles him and Porthos jumps, spins on Aramis, and nearly trips over. Aramis steadies him, grinning. “Sorry, didn't mean to cause that chaos.”

 

“Thought you'd gone,” Porthos mutters, heart beating hard. “Jesus, you're like a bleeding cat. I should put bells on you.”

 

“Izzy usually makes noises, she's sulking because I changed her nappy. Apparently the wet one was better. Coffee? Or are you working?”

 

“Nah, not working. Athos has a stomach bug, so I'm not allowed to go in.”

 

“What?”

 

“I work on the deli counter. Food hygene rules. If you've been around a puking person you're not allowed to be around food. Athos is most definitely a puking person. He threw up on me. Twice.”

 

“Oh, right. I suppose no coffee, then?”

 

“He's probably still sleeping, he had mostly done with the vomiting by this morning. He'll text if he needs me. He is a grown man, he'll be fine on his own anyway. He's just whiney when he's sick, and clingy, and terribly pathetic. In short, yeah, coffee sounds good.”

 

“Your house isn't having much luck with illness this week,” Aramis says, trying to put Izzy in the pushchair. She screams until he picks her up again, though. Aramis pushes one handed, Izzy held against his shoulder.

 

“Athos is a teacher. Whatever's going around uni, he catches. Especially if he's tired, which he is. He's an insomniac and hasn't been sleeping. Sorry, I'm dumping on you a bit here.”

 

“No problem. He works at the uni?”

 

“Oh, you do, too, right? He works at the old poly, though.”

 

“Me too. What's his surname?”

 

“de la Fère. He's professor of English.”

 

“I know of him. He's got a bit of a, um, reputation.”

 

“He's a grouch, but he has a heart of melted butter.”

 

“Oh, yeah, his rep is definitely the latter not the former. He's soft as anything on the students, and everyone loves him to bits. He's also got a rep as one of the fanciable teachers. Freshers always get crushes on him.”

 

“I will not be telling that. I will be telling him he has a reputation of a fearsome grouch,” Porthos says.

 

Aramis laughs. They spend another enjoyable afternoon in the café, playing with Izzy and talking. Porthos is pretty sure there's no hope for him- by the time he heads home, he's buzzing, thinking about Aramis, completely and utterly gone.

 

**

 

“He just has such nice hair,” Porthos tells Athos.

 

It's Thursday, and Porthos has a day off. He's lying on the floor of Athos' office, resting his back, talking about Aramis. Sighing about Aramis. Athos had tried to get rid of Porthos by suggesting Aramis might be around and overhear, but Porthos had pointed out Aramis is not working for a bit, and Athos had had no recourse. He's mostly just ignoring Porthos, marking papers or something, clicking away on the computer.

 

“And such a lovely smile. Have you seen him smile? It's so beautiful.”

 

There's a knock on the door, and a frantic looking teenager comes barrelling in without waiting for an answer, flings herself in a chair and starts talking. Porthos stays quiet while Athos soothes the essay angst and then Athos points him out and the student shrieks and starts to cry.

 

“I'm not that bad,” Porthos grumbles.

 

“Shut up,” Athos says, giving him a kick. “I'm sorry, Tara. I didn't mean to startle you.”

 

The student manages to stop the tears and goes bright red, instead, stuttering for a while. Porthos hums to himself until the drama's over. Athos is very good at soothing. Tara, it turns out, is writing a dissertation, and is twenty three and not really a teenager. She gets excited when she talks about her conclusion and Porthos listens, amused and half-interested. When she's gone, he goes back to talking about Aramis.

 

“Porthos?”

 

“Yep?”

 

“Would you be quiet, if I went and found you chocolate?”

 

“Yup.”

 

Athos opens the bottom drawer of his desk and drops a Kitkat and a Mars bar on Porthos' chest.

 

“Last of my stash, it will be moved again in the future,” Athos says.

 

“Aw, Ath, you should just tell me where it is, you know.”

 

“No. You'll just eat it all and then throw up on me.”

 

“That was once.”

 

“Five times, so far, I'm keeping score. You have no self control whatsoever. You promised to be quiet if I provided chocolate.”

 

“Okay. Just before I shut up. Have you noticed-”

 

“I saw Aramis for all of two seconds, and noticed nothing beyond the fact that there was a baby attached to him. Babies are scary, Porthos.”

 

“Izzy's lovely. She has lovely golden skin, darker'n Aramis'. She has Spanish heritage like him, apparently. She's got such a beautiful-”

 

“Porthos?”

 

“Yep?”

 

“Chocolate. Silence. I am working.”

 

“Right.”

 

Porthos is quiet for a while, sucking the chocolate off the kitkat. He keeps quiet even after he's eaten both chocolate bars. He's quiet for so long he nearly falls asleep.

 

“How's your back?” Athos asks, softly, just before he dozes off. It's quiet enough Porthos can ignore it and go on drowsing if he wants.

 

“Alright. Just tired,” Porthos says.

 

“You're tired, or your back's tired?”

 

“My back. I'm not tired, I'm bored. I'm sleeping in self defence.”

 

“I know. About the boredom I mean. You turned up here on a week day and have sat through three tutorials, I know you're bored. Why not go home and watch telly? Or you could borrow a book?”

 

“I have books. I'm bored of telly. I'm happy here.”

 

Athos sighs, but a minute later he drops another chocolate bar on Porthos' chest and gives him permission to talk about Aramis.

 

**

 

Porthos tells the story of the selkies. The sun is out, for once, and it's shining right into the room, warming the faces that are tipped up at him. He closes his eyes and tells them about the summer, about the sea, about the women who love each other but are ultimately stuck in different worlds.

 

“Sometimes, in the summer, when the sun is very bright and the sea is very blue, you can see her, walking the shore, or hear her singing. She comes out onto land once a year to see her love. They return to one another, always, unendingly,” Porthos says, trailing off.

 

He adapted the story as he went, today, and he's not sure it's really a story that's gripped the children. Keighley, one of the girls who comes regularly, is staring up at him with her mouth open, her braids spread over her shoulders, her dark skin lit up by the sunshine. Porthos smiles at her.

 

“Wow,” she whispers. “I saw her, at the beach! She was singing, and she was with the woman, they were holding hands! I saw the selkie, Mama!”

 

Keighley scrambles up and runs excitedly to her mother, and people around her get up and go to their parents, or cluster around Keighley to hear more. Porthos supposes that counts as a success. He's got a proper chair, today, instead of the low stool. His back's still sore. He gets to his feet and stretches carefully, rubbing over the sore spot.

 

“Hello,” Aramis says, coming up. Izzy is crying.

 

“Oh dear, what's the matter?” Porthos asks.

 

“No idea. She's been grizzling all afternoon,” Aramis says. He looks exhausted.

 

Porthos looks down at Izzy, but can't see anything wrong. He suggests a few things, but Aramis just waves it away, sighing.

 

“She's just grumpy, probably hasn't enough sleep. She prefers it outside, moving. Do you want to come for a walk? It's sunny,” Aramis says.

 

Porthos considers it. He'll have to admit to being slow if he says yes, and maybe explain himself. He does want to go, though. He nods, following Aramis out. Aramis doesn't have the pushchair today, just the sling and the nappy bag. He leads Porthos to the river and they walk slowly, shoulder to shoulder. Aramis doesn't question the pace, so Porthos doesn't say anything, but eventually he needs to stop. He sits on a bench when they reach one.

 

“Tired already?” Aramis teases, laughing. “She might start crying if we stop, you know.”

 

“Sorry. Got a bad back today,” Porthos says.

 

“Oh, I'm sorry. How insensitive of me, Jesus. I'm such a twat,” Aramis says, plonking down next to Porthos.

 

“I didn't say anything, how were you to know?”

 

“Yeah, well. Are you alright?”

 

“Fine. I damaged it, ages ago, and it hurts sometimes that's all. Just a bit slow. Is she happy?”

 

“She's fine. She's… she's actually asleep, thank god.”

 

“Bad night?”

 

“Bad week. I think she's gassy, she's just uncomfortable and unhappy all the time. The health visitor suggested trying taking dairy out of her diet.”

 

“Poor thing.”

 

“Yeah. Poor her, poor me. I'm so tired!”

 

Porthos wants to give Aramis a hug, but he's pretty sure they're not quite there yet. Instead, he chatters about nothing much and watches Aramis' face, watches the expressions, the smiles, the tired, gentle looks down at the baby.

 

“Christ, you're lovely,” Porthos mutters, unable to help himself.

 

Aramis is gazing down at Izzy, face soft, smile soft, sun lighting him, hair around his face. He looks up at Porthos, surprised, and his smile widens, spreading to light up his eyes, brightening him. Porthos can't look away. Aramis leans forwards, suddenly, and his lips brush Porthos'. He pulls back a tiny bit to check it's okay, then presses forwards again. This time the kiss is deeper, warmer.

 

“Oh,” Porthos says, when Aramis sits back again. Aramis grins, pleased with himself. “That was nice. Do it again?”

 

Aramis does. Twice.

 

“You're lovely, too,” Aramis says.

 

“Thanks.”

 

“Do you want to come for lunch with me and Izzy, sometime? As a date?”

 

“Very much.”

 

“Good. I'll give you my number.”

 

They walk back to town hand in hand, and Porthos can't stop smiling, can't stop his thumb rubbing over Aramis' skin, can't stop looking and looking at him. He's so beautiful. He's just so beautiful.

 

**

 

“And yet, we still haven't had sex!” Porthos says, three weeks later, lying once more on Athos' office floor.

 

“I do not need to know that,” Athos says, sounding distracted. “I'm pretty sure this guy was high when he wrote this essay. Jesus Christ.”

 

“But we've kissed, and he groped me last time, and he loves my arse. He said so. I want him to do things! I want to do things! But he never invites me back to his, and when he comes over, he hardly stays five minutes. Izzy's always there, too. I like her and all, but there's only so much sexiness you can feel around a man's daughter, you know!”

 

“Does your back hurt?”

 

“No?”

 

“Then get off my floor and stop telling me about sex. I'm ace, I don't care about my own sex life, let alone someone else's.”

 

“I like your floor.”

 

“Go away, Porthos.”

 

Porthos doesn't go away, he lies just where he is and complains some more. Athos eventually gets up and leaves him to it, returning half an hour later with food. He doesn't share the food, which is just mean. Porthos sighs heavily a few times, but still no food is forthcoming. Athos starts to laugh, and rests a foot against Porthos' side.

 

“You're so melodramatic,” Athos says, clearly amused. “I love you to bits, but you're a complete idiot. If you want food, go get food. If you want sex, ask him for sex. Surely it's not that complicated?”

 

“I suppose. I'm just grouching.”

 

“I know that. It's boring. I am fond of you, though.”

 

“What brought all this affection on?” Porthos asks, wrapping a hand around Athos' ankle and giving it a squeeze.

 

“You. Lying there, heaving your sighs, giving me that big-eyed look. You haven't changed since you were six years old, I swear to God.”

 

“I didn't want sex with Aramis when I was six. Have you seen him, Athos? He's so hot and-”

 

“Yes, I know. You've told me, over and over again. Just tell him you want him to do horrific things to your arse, Porthos. And stop bothering me with it. You're welcome to lie there and be dramatic, that's fairly entertaining. Just not the sex talk.”

 

“I want him to do lovely things to my arse, not horrific things,” Porthos grumbles.

 

Athos just smiles fondly down at him. He gives Porthos an apple. When Porthos tries to talk about sex, he talks over Porthos about Shakespeare. Porthos tries to argue that Shakespeare is just about sex, but Athos threatens to drop the complete works on his head, so Porthos leaves him alone.

 

**

 

Porthos takes Aramis' hand. They're wandering through the herb garden at the cathedral, Aramis pausing every few seconds to pick something or smell something or chew on something. Porthos is carrying Izzy in the crook of his arm.

 

“Both hands on the baby,” Aramis says, taking his hand back.

 

Porthos sighs. He's beginning to wonder if Aramis is even attracted to him. They rarely even kiss, these days. He shifts ahead a little, squinting against the sun.

 

“Can you taker her? My back's a bit sore,” Porthos says, turning to Aramis.

 

Aramis smiles and lifts Izzy, calling her 'nene' and flying her around a bit, chatting to her. Porthos stuffs his hands in his pockets and trails after them, grouchy.

 

“What's got Porthos' knickers in a twist, I wonder, my darling? What do you think, nene?” Aramis says, to Izzy, sending Porthos a smile.

 

“My back hurts,” Porthos says, sitting on a bench, leaning on his knees. He realises it's actually true. The steady ache has blossomed into real pain. “God, actually, it really hurts.”

 

“Is that why you're so moody, today? Anything I can do?” Aramis asks, sitting beside him.

 

“No.”

 

“Are you okay? Other than the pain? You seem… I don't know. You seem sad,” Aramis says.

 

Porthos shakes his head, rubbing his face. Aramis nods, resting a hand on his back a moment. He sits against the bench, raising one ankle to rest on his knee, and plays with Izzy, leaving Porthos to his sulk. Porthos wonders if Athos would come and collect him if he asked really nicely.

 

“Oh, I meant to ask. Are you working on Sunday?” Aramis says, touching Porthos' back to get his attention.

 

“Ow,” Porthos says, shifting away.

 

“Sorry. So, Sunday?”

 

“No, don't think so. They've cut back my shifts, actually, I've got less work than I'd like,” Porthos admits.

 

“Do you want to come to baby-dance with us? It's just a music thing, but Izzy loves it. She's really funny.”

 

“I don't know,” Porthos says. He'd much rather have a date which involves kissing and making out and, just once, no baby. Just once.

 

“Is there a problem? With me?”

 

Porthos doesn't answer. Aramis huffs out a frustrated sigh, and his hand lands on Porthos' back again.

 

“Would you stop? That 'urts,” Porthos snaps.

 

“No it does not,” Aramis snaps right back. Izzy starts to cry. “Now look what you've done. What bug crawled up your arse and died, today? You're a right grumpy bastard. It's alright, baby, I'm just cross with Porthos, not you. Hush, hush. You're alright, my love.”

 

“Great. I'm a grumpy bastard, and you're cross, and it does too hurt.”

 

“Are we fighting?” Aramis asks.

 

“Yes. Get your hand off, it hurts,” Porthos says.

 

Aramis sighs, but removes his hand. Porthos groans, trying to sit up. His back hurts, sharp and unpleasant, and he bends forwards again.

 

“Did I actually hurt you? I'm sorry,” Aramis says, gentler.

 

“Just hurts,” Porthos says, shutting his eyes. “I am being a grouch. I'm just in pain. Could you take me home? I don't feel well.”

 

“Of course. Whatever you need.”

 

Porthos tries to get up, and that hurts, too. He's used to it. He shuffles a few steps, then limps the rest of the way, lowering himself into the car. He doesn't know where the pain came from, usually he wakes up to it, or something sets it off. It's not usually sudden like this.

 

“What day is it?” he asks, half-way home.

 

“Thursday. Why?”

 

“It's about three, right?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Just wondering if Athos will be home. He should be.”

 

Aramis follows Porthos in, anyway. Athos is sat in the kitchen reading, glasses perched on his face. When he sees the state Porthos is in though he hurries through, and helps him onto the floor. He slides a book under Porthos head, then another.

 

“What happened?” Athos asks. “Aramis, there's a purple lunchbox in the bathroom cupboard, can you grab it? It has his meds in. Porthos?”

 

“Don't know. Just suddenly hurt,” Porthos whispers. “Ow. Ow, Ath.”

 

“I can see that. What do you need?”

 

Porthos doesn't know. He can't think. It just hurts. He feels a prick. Athos is shifting him a bit, until his back's straighter. Porthos just lies there, helpless, pain crashing over him in crescendos. When it begins to ease, he realises he's been crying. Athos' hand is tight in his own, and he can feel the morphine, clouding him, cushioning him. He hums, breathing out in relief. It still hurts, but it's no longer unbearable. Someone else is crying, too.

 

“It's the baby,” Athos says, when Porthos tries to move around to look. “Stay still. What have you done to yourself, you idiot?”

 

“I dunno. I was fine this mornin'.”

 

“Aramis says you didn't do anything except wander around a cathedral. Did you do anything yesterday, maybe?”

 

“No. I carried the baby.”

 

“Maybe it was that. Oh well. How are you doing?”

 

“Better. Still hurts. Did you give me morphine?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Aramis is here?”

 

“Yes, he's in the kitchen. Do you want to see him? He wanted to wait to check you were okay. He said you were arguing?”

 

“A bit. I don't know,” Porthos says, letting his eyes drift shut. The floating feeling is setting in. He giggles, scratching idly at his belly.

 

Athos extracts his hand, and Porthos pouts, reaching to get it back. Athos is gone, though. Porthos doesn't mind too much, especially when Athos floats back with chocolate and Aramis. Porthos is pretty sure that Athos is holding Izzy, but that can't be right because babies frighten Athos. Aramis kneels by Porthos head, and touches his cheek to get his attention.

 

“Hey, you scared me,” Aramis says. “Did I hurt you?”

 

“Nah,” Porthos admits, grinning. “Just cross with you. Didn' hurt a bit. Nothin' hur's now. Oh, sluuurr-y.”

 

Aramis laughs, then stifles it, face going all worried and crinkly. Porthos reaches out to touch the crinkles, running his hand over Aramis' features. He's so beautiful.

 

“So mush sunshine,” Porthos says, as Aramis glows.

 

“What?” Aramis asks.

 

“Ignore him, he's high,” Athos says.

 

“Is he holding a baby?” Porthos whispers, tugging Aramis closer to whisper better.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Take a photo,” Porthos says, fumbling for his phone and pressing it into Aramis' hand. “Quick. Take a photo, take a photo. For pos… post… th' one which is like a bum.”

 

“Posterity,” Athos supplies, laughing. “Sounds like posterior.”

 

“Did you take?” Porthos says, yawning, letting himself go completely limp.

 

“I took three,” Aramis says. “He's scowling at me.”

 

“Good. You should be scowled at. Bad Aramis.”

 

“Yeah, I got that feeling. What's bad about me?”

 

“Oi, don't do that,” Athos says. “Don't answer that, Porthos. You can't ask him that, on morphine. He'll answer.”

 

“That's the point,” Aramis says.

 

“He can't decide what he wants you know. He'll just tell you everything. He has no filter. Porthos, really, don't-”

 

“Bad Aramis. Won't have sex with me. Always cartin' that baby aroun' with us, always watchin'. Can't do nice things to m'arse with the baby watching,” Porthos grumbles, reaching out to try and touch Aramis' bum. “An' you, you have a lovely bum. And a face. No more kissing, though. Y'stopped kissin' me.”

 

“Um,” Aramis says.

 

“Stupid Aramis. Doesn' even wan' m'.”

 

“Could you take your baby, please?” Athos says.

 

“I-” Aramis starts.

 

“Now, Aramis. Take this baby. He's about two seconds from a freak out, you need to take the baby,” Athos says, urgently.

 

“No one wan's me,” Porthos whispers, tears starting again. “You gotta love Iz, though. Gotta love her, Aramis. Loads and loads. Can't leave 'er even f'r lovely sex. No. Where is she? Why don't you have her? Did you leave her somewhere? Aramis, where's your baby?”

 

Porthos tries to get up, manages to sit, and then he's in Athos' arms, face pressed against Athos' shoulder.

 

“Hush,” Athos says. “Take it easy. I've got you.”

 

Porthos goes limp again, resting against Athos, letting Athos deal with everything. Porthos shuts his eyes.

 

“Please can you not ask him emotional questions when he's high?” Athos says. “He always does this. For fuck's sake Porthos, stop crying.”

 

Porthos realises that he's making horrible choking, sobbing noises, and tries to stop them. Athos rocks him, rubbing his back, avoiding the sore places.

 

“Ah, love, it's alright. Sorry Aramis, I think it might be easier if you left.”

 

“No, he needs to stay,” Porthos whispers.

 

“What's the matter?” Aramis says. “Is he cross because the baby's always here, or because I don't have her with me every single second?”

 

“Both,” Athos says. “Jesus, Porthos. You're alright. His back being this bad is hard, especially when he's high. Just take a deep breath, Porthos. Aramis, you really need to leave. I'm sorry, but this isn't for you.”

 

“I want him to stay,” Porthos says.

 

“I know, but he can't. He's got to go. Look after the baby.”

 

“Oh. Yeah, better go look after her. Do you think he loves her good enough?”

 

“I'm sure he does.”

 

“Athos,” Porthos moans, clinging to him. “No, please.”

 

“Alright, alright. Easy, my love. Take it easy. Hey, he's high as a kite and freaking out.”

 

“Wha'?”

 

“Porthos? Hey, Pip, what's going on, sweetheart?”

 

“Papa?” Porthos asks, turning his head, trying to see his Dad.

 

“He's on the phone,” Athos says. “He's coming over.”

 

“Oh,” Porthos whispers. “Papa?”

 

“Here, Sweets. How are you doing? Something upset you? I love you, remember?”

 

“Yeah. I 'member.”

 

Porthos shuts his eyes, and when he opens them, Athos is gone. Porthos yells, panicking, and Treville comes running, lifting him to sit again, into his arms. Porthos clings to his father, heart pounding.

 

“Hey Pip, hey, I've got you. I've got you, Sweets,” Treville whispers. “Oh, darling, hush.”

 

Porthos goes to sleep in his father's arms, too tired to fight it.

 

**

 

Aramis comes to visit him, the day after his embarrassing morphine episode. Porthos is lying in bed, doped up on painkillers (not morphine, though). Treville's in the kitchen, and Athos has taken off work, too, and is reading in an armchair in Porthos' room. When Aramis knocks on the door and comes in, Athos closes his book and tries to slip out.

 

“Athos?” Porthos says, half asleep, reaching for him.

 

“Aramis is here,” Athos says. “Alright?”

 

“Mm. 'kay,” Porthos says.

 

Athos leaves, Aramis coming to sit on the edge of the bed. Porthos looks around for Izzy, and frowns when he doesn't see her.

 

“What's up?” Aramis asks.

 

“Where's the baby?”

 

“I left her with your Dad,” Aramis says, smiling. “He seemed very excited.”

 

“He likes babies,” Porthos agrees.

 

“How are you?”

 

“Bit better. They're both taking days off work, though, so something's wrong.”

 

“You can't tell?”

 

“Not really. I'm high. I'm sorry, about yesterday.”

 

“It's okay. You could have just said you wanted to have sex, you know. I was waiting, you didn't really give an indication that you wanted that,” Aramis says.

 

“Oh.”

 

“Athos tells me you're just hopeless.”

 

“I am not. I've very… um… un-hopeless. Hopeful.”

 

Aramis smiles, and Porthos reaches to touch, running his thumb over Aramis' mouth. Aramis bends forwards and kisses him, deeply, thoroughly. Porthos sighs into it, shutting his eyes. They kiss for a while, Porthos tucking his hand into Aramis' belt to ground himself. He feels like he's floating away on the kisses.

 

“So nice,” he murmurs.

 

“Yes, I think so, too. When you're better I'll do whatever you like to your arse. It's a very nice bottom, you know I think that.”

 

“Yeah, I know,” Porthos whispers, grinning.

 

“Tell me you're alright?”

 

“Be fine. Just tired. Sorry.”

 

“It's okay. You scared me, yesterday. You were in so much pain.”

 

“Mm. That hasn't happened in a while. Must've done something.”

 

“Was it carrying Izzy?”

 

“Nah. She's only tiny. Probably holding myself stiff, being all cross. Something like that. Doesn't always take much.”

 

“What happened? Can I ask? Athos said I shouldn't ask things when you're high.”

 

“He's an arse.”

 

“Is he right, though?”

 

“Morphine. Best not to ask me things on morphine. I don't always understand, and get… easily sidetracked. I'd rather not answer, about what happened, though. It's a long story.”

 

“Alright. Tell me something else, then. About you. Oh, I know. Tell me about your Dad, he seems nice.”

 

“Treville. Yeah, he's something, isn't he? Fostered me when I was small, and fought Belgard till he signed me over for adoption. Made me feel proper wanted.”

 

“You're adopted? I didn't know that.”

 

“Mm. Mum died when I was quite small. Belgard, the man who got her pregnant, wasn't very good at looking after me. Kept getting took away from 'im. Then Treville fostered me, and I got took away for ever. That was better. I didn't like Belgard.”

 

“Was he unkind to you?”

 

“No, just neglectful. Didn't love me much. Papa loved me enough for everyone, though,” Porthos says, sighing. “Is he still here? Can you get 'im for me?”

 

Treville comes in before Porthos is done asking for him, Izzy in his arms, kicking and laughing. He sits on the bed next to Aramis and puts the baby on Porthos' chest, then strokes Porthos' hair.

 

“What's the matter?” Treville asks.

 

“He was telling me about being adopted,” Aramis says.

 

Izzy, on her back, giggles at the ceiling. Aramis leans over to sing to her and Porthos sighs, reaching for Treville's hand.

 

“Alright, Pip?” Treville asks, frowning. “What's upset you?”

 

“Nothin',” Porthos says, sighing again. “Just wanted you.”

 

“Well, here I am.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Izzy's adopted, too,” Aramis says, smiling at them both. “Hopefully I'll be good at it.”

 

“You can talk to me about it, if you like,” Treville says. “I assume, if you've been chosen for adoption, that you already have an extensive support network, but the offer's there.”

 

“Thanks,” Aramis says. “Is Porthos okay?”

 

“Yes, I'm sure he's fine. A bit sleepy, right now, I think,” Treville says, laughing, rubbing Porthos' head as Porthos' eyes droop. “Rest, baby, it's fine.”

 

“Bit sore,” Porthos says, shifting a little, resting a hand on Izzy's belly.

 

“Is she okay there?” Aramis asks.

 

“He's just grumbling. Go to sleep, sweetheart,” Treville says. “I'll be right here.”

 

Porthos nods and lets himself drift off.

 

**

 

It takes Porthos a few days to be up and around. Treville takes the week off work, and Izzy and Aramis keep on dropping by. Aramis is as likely to talk to Treville as he is to spend time with Porthos, but they're always perfectly content when Porthos shuffles in to cuddle with one or the other of them.

 

“Alright, Pip?” Treville asks, when Porthos curls up next to him on the sofa, on Tuesday.

 

“I'm tired,” Porthos says, yawning.

 

“How's your back?” Treville asks. “You're all scrunched up here.”

 

“It's fine. I took something,” Porthos says, yawning again. “I want a nap.”

 

“You mean you want to nap on me. Aramis is coming by later, he promised to make dinner.”

 

“I wonder if he's any good at cooking,” Porthos says, snuggling down, using Treville as a giant pillow. “Mm. You're softer than you used to be.”

 

Treville laughs, and Porthos feels it vibrating through him. He falls asleep quite quickly, and when he wakes, he's lying flat on the sofa, Izzy asleep between him and the sofa-back. He can hear Aramis and Treville talking quietly in the kitchen, and when he looks around, he spots Athos curled up in an arm chair, with his ipad.

 

“Hey,” Porthos says.

 

“Oh, you're awake. Good. The baby is too,” Athos says, not looking up.

 

Porthos shifts Izzy until she's on his chest instead of on the sofa, and sits her up. She flops sideways, against his arm, and gums at his sleeve.

 

“Your socks don't match,” Athos says.

 

“I know,” Porthos says. “Don't care.”

 

Aramis comes in, wearing an apron, hair tied back. He looks very sexy. Porthos grins up at him, and Aramis comes to press a kiss first to Izzy, then Porthos. Porthos gets himself a proper kiss and deepens it, moaning a bit.

 

“Oi,” Athos says.

 

“Right, the baby,” Porthos says, pulling back. “Dad? Can you take Izzy so I can make out with Aramis?”

 

“Sure,” Treville says, wandering in, eating something. “Dinner's in the oven. Feeling better now?”

 

“Yep,” Porthos says, passing the baby over and sitting up carefully. “Come on, Aramis, let's go make out.”

 

“I'm not having sex while your Dad babysits a room away,” Aramis says, but he lets Porthos tug him into the bedroom.

 

They make out for a while, kissing and groping. Porthos keeps at it until his back twinges, then he flops onto the bed, pulling Aramis down beside him, turning his head to watch Aramis' face.

 

“You're so hot,” Porthos says, undoing Aramis' ponytail. “So damned hot. What is with this hair? Should be illegal. So fluffy.”

 

“Are you high?”

 

“Not really. Just happy. You want to have sex with me, my back's stopped hurting so much, I only had one nap today, and there is the promise of good food in my future. Plus, I'm pretty sure Athos is going to be completely grossed out, which is always entertaining.”

 

Aramis beams at him, and kisses him some more. Porthos lets him do the work, enjoying being mostly-passive, just flopping about. It's so nice, so warm, so soft. Porthos hums into it, lips vibrating. Aramis grins against his mouth.

 

“Dinner's ready!” Treville yells. “I'm not coming in!”

 

Porthos laughs.

 

**

 

“You're better!” Aramis says, when Porthos turns up on Saturday.

 

“Yeah, all healed up,” Porthos says, giving him a hug. “How are you guys? Did you have a nice time at your sister's?”

 

Aramis went away on Thursday for two nights, much to Porthos' irritation. He'd sulked most of the time Aramis was gone. He grins now, though, and boops Izzy's nose.

 

“We had a lovely time. Izzy met her cousins, and her counins' dogs. I told Viva about you, and she mocked me,” Aramis says.

 

“Great. Want to go for coffee, when we're done here?”

 

“Of course. I was thinking, you should come home with me, tonight. Stay over. If you're feeling better.”

 

“Yes, I definitely am. Really? What about Iz?”

 

“She'll be asleep.”

 

“Yes. Lets have lots of sex, tonight.”

 

Aramis laughs, kissing him again. Porthos tells an enthusiastic and exciting story about fighting a dragon, and accidentally gets some of the kids over-excited enough that they re-enact the battle. Aramis and Porthos sneak away, giggling.

 

**

 

Sex with Aramis turns out to be slow and sensuous. Aramis spends hours and hours just running his mouth and hands over every inch of Porthos, finding every sensitive spot. He goes all limp when Porthos returns the favour, and then, when they're both aroused and have been kissing and touching for hours, he persuades Porthos to ride him. He very enthusiastic.

 

“Oh my god, that was fun,” Porthos says, chest heaving, tired out and sated.

 

“Yeah. We need to practice, though. No more biting my nipple,” Aramis says, rubbing said-nipple.

 

“Sorry,” Porthos says, rubbing it, too. “We need to get better at this, for sure. It was good, but you took ages preparing me. What were you doin' down there, even?”

 

“You have a lovely bottom,” Aramis defends.

 

“Yeah, and it wanted your cock in it, and all it got was hours of fingers.”

 

“I got my cock in eventually.”

 

“Yeah. I liked that.”

 

“I noticed. You were noisy.”

 

Porthos grins, running his fingers through the mess he made. He wipes it on Aramis' cheek, and gets chased to the bathroom.

 

**

 

“God, Porthos, stop talking about what Aramis does to your bum! Seriously, stop!”

 

Porthos beams at Athos. He's making dinner for them both, and Athos keeps trying to escape, but Porthos just follows him, and Athos says he's dropping food all over the flat. Porthos is dropping food all over the flat, to keep Athos in the kitchen.

 

“He loves my bum,” Porthos says, smugly. “And my bum love his c-”

 

“Shut up, shut up!” Athos says.

 

He looks close to violence, so Porthos shrugs and stays quiet for a bit.

 

“And then, he has this way of-” Porthos starts, and Athos launches himself off the counter, tackling Porthos to the floor. The knife Porthos had been using to chop up pepper goes thudding into the wall and they both freeze, looking at it where it's stuck in the plaster, vibrating. “Wow. That was cool.”

 

“I hate you,” Athos says, going all floppy on top of Porthos.

 

“I know,” Porthos says, cheerfully patting Athos.

 

“Did I hurt your back?”

 

“Nope. Don't think so. The pasta sauce might burn if you don't let me up.”

 

Athos lets him up and Porthos retrieves the knife and gives the sauce a stir.

 

“You know,” Porthos says, beaming. “Aramis' tongue-”

 

Athos yells and runs away.

 

**

 

“If your Dad babysits, we could do something fancy,” Aramis says, one day.

 

Porthos is sitting on the sofa, slouched right down, feet up on the coffee table. He worked ages and his feet hurt and he's tired. Aramis is using his stomach as a pillow, playing with Izzy. Porthos grunts, not really listening, paying more attention to the smells coming from the kitchen. Athos is cooking, so while it smells good right now, there's every possibility there'll be charring and screaming in the next minute.

 

“Porthos? Are you in there?” Aramis says.

 

“Mm,” Porthos grunts. “Dad. Babysitting. Fancy.”

 

“Yeah. I could take you out for dinner, then we could go back to mine, drink wine. Have lots of sex. Lots and lots of sex.”

 

Porthos grunts again. Izzy isn't sleeping well at the moment, and sex has mostly been interrupted or very quick. Porthos doesn't mind. Aramis is hot, whatever he's doing. Porthos just wanks a lot. He sniffs, suspicious.

 

“Athos! Take that off the hob, it's about to-” Porthos starts.

 

“Shit, shit, shit!” Athos says.

 

“Did you burn yourself again?” Porthos asks.

 

The onions go back to smelling like slightly over-cooked onions, not about-to-burn onions. Athos doesn't answer the question.

 

“We could always ask Athos to babysit,” Aramis says.

 

There's a crash from the kitchen, and more cursing. Porthos grins. Athos comes in, glaring, dish-towel over his shoulder.

 

“I dropped the pan of pasta on the floor,” Athos says.

 

“Aw, babe,” Porthos says. “Scoop it up. We'll eat it. I mopped earlier, it'll be fine.”

 

Athos retreats again, muttering obscenities not-quite-under his breath.

 

“Treville, then,” Aramis says. “What do you think, Iz? You wanna stay with Grandad?”

 

“Oh, don't let 'im hear you say that, he might die of happiness,” Porthos says. “You gonna add tomatoes to them onions, Ath?”

 

“I'm cleaning up Aramis' mess,” Athos snaps.

 

“I think Grandad is less of a mouthful than Treville. Plus, she only has a grandma. She needs more grandparents. Plus, I'm keeping Treville even if I go off you. That's long term, that is,” Aramis says.

 

“Fuck you very much.”

 

“I wish. I haven't had your tongue up my arse for a week, Porthos. A week!”

 

There's another crash from the kitchen. Athos comes out spattered in tomato and stomps to his room.

 

“There goes dinner,” Porthos says, sadly.

 

He sighs and goes to finish up and clean tomato off the floor. Athos returns only when everything's ready, and apologises. Well, he Athos-apologises, which means he gives Porthos shoves until he sits down, and then gives Porthos a huge glass of wine.

 

“I'll ask Dad,” Porthos says. “He'll say yes. Tell me when. I'll stick my tongue up your arse, you can fuck me, it'll be glorious. Athos, seriously? For fuck's sake!”

 

Porthos goes to get the mop and the dust-pan and brush, to clean up the wine and shattered glass.

 

“I hate you all,” Athos mutters, glaring balefully at them.

 

**

 

Porthos wakes up to crying. He sighs and rolls over, padding over to the cot, without waking properly. He scoops up the baby and bounces her a little, wandering to the kitchen to warm up some milk. She eats a lot of solids, now, but she still wakes at night for milk. Porthos leans on the counter, Iz in the crook of his arm, and dozes while she feeds.

 

“Hmm?” Aramis asks, stumbling in, hair in his face.

 

“We're fine,” Porthos says.

 

Aramis stumbles out again. Porthos burps Izzy, then follows Aramis back to the bedroom. Aramis is spread eagle on the bed, face in the pillows, snoring loudly. Porthos rocks Izzy, but she's quite awake. He yawns, tells her a story, sings her a song, and then puts her on the bed, so she's between him and Aramis, and goes back to sleep while she plays with his hair.

 

Next time he wakes it's to crying, again. Aramis grumbles something and pats Porthos' head, so Porthos cracks his eyes open and squints at the baby. She doesn't look hungry. Porthos sniffs, and sighs. He rolls off the bed and lifts her onto the changing mat on the chest of drawers. He needs wipes. And a new nappy. And a baggie. He's still not great at nappies, they're hard. He takes the dirty one off, collecting things around him, and grimaces.

 

“'mis, she's covered in shit. It's gone up her back,” Porthos mutters.

 

“Wash 'er,” Aramis growls, refusing to wake up.

 

Porthos looks down at the red, tear streaked face, and sighs. He clears her up as best he can, then carries her, naked, to the bathroom. It takes ten minutes to fill her bath, then another ten minutes to get her clean, then ten to get her dry, nappied and clothed. He then has to clean up the poo-nami, by which time she's happy and asleep in her cot. Porthos collapses back onto the bed.

 

Porthos wakes to crying. He moans, but Aramis just thwacks him. Porthos sighs and gets up, lifting Izzy from the cot.

 

“What can you want this time, cub?” Porthos says. She just cries. “Bad dream, baby? A'right, a'right. I'm here.”

 

Porthos goes back to the bed, after checking nappy and hunger, and lets her rest snuffling on his chest. He remembers curling up with Treville, not this small but often enough over the years. He smiles, patting Izzy's back, and tells her a quiet story about a snail and a ladybird. She settles down, happy now she's on top of him, and he dozes back off.

 

He wakes to crying.

 

“I've got her, go to sleep,” Aramis whispers.

 

Porthos gladly takes up the offer, sleeping the two hours until his alarm goes off. He goes through to the kitchen, yawning and stretching, and finds Aramis at the table on his phone, Izzy in the high-chair smearing porridge and fruit-goo over everything. Porthos goes to make coffee.

 

“Morning,” Aramis says, amused.

 

“Fuck you,” Porthos says.

 

“Thank you.”

 

“Yeah. You owe me. I'm working twelve hours, today, and we've got two deliveries coming in.”

 

“I owe you. Can you get more Sudocreme when you're out? She's got another rash. And nappies. She's shitting everywhere at the moment.”

 

“Yeah, noticed. Text me a list, I won't remember.”

 

“Mm. We've got sex scheduled tonight. You gonna be too tired?”

 

“Uh-uh. You can do the work, eh?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“Coffee. Toast. Work.”

 

Porthos pours himself a big mug, puts bread in the toaster, and sits next to Izzy, making faces at her until she laughs.

 

**

 

Porthos wakes to a bad back, and the baby crying. He sighs, catching Aramis' arm before it can hit him. Aramis mutters something rude, and something about a day off, so Porthos heaves himself up. It's true, he has tomorrow off. He frowns. There's light between the curtains. He looks at his phone, stretching to test his back, and frowns.

 

“'mis, it's five thirty,” Porthos whispers.

 

“Shh.”

 

“She slept all night.”

 

“Don' jinx it.”

 

Porthos goes to lift Izzy out of the cot, but has to stop and put her down.

 

“What's the matter, baby?” Porthos asks, sniffing. He can't smell anything from all the way up here, and bending hurts. He tries lifting her again, and gets her against his shoulder. “Oh, you're getting heavy, sweets. What's up?”

 

“She's hungry, shut up,” Aramis growls.

 

Porthos takes a few steps, then detours to the bed, lowering himself to sit. Aramis flops about and glares at him.

 

“Back hurts,” Porthos says. Aramis sighs and gets up, taking the baby.

 

Porthos lies on his back and waits. Soon enough Aramis returns, with the baby and a bottle. He plonks the baby on Porthos' chest and hands over the bottle, and then flops face-first into the pillows and is snoring before a minute passes. Porthos sits up and feeds Izzy, then lets her sleep with them.

 

He wakes to pain, and sighs. He reaches out to check Izzy, resting a hand on her belly. She laughs, hands closing over his, jabbering out a 'da da da' sound that Aramis insists is her calling him Dada. It's not. She is starting to shape words, but she's still not actually got anything. She makes animal noises, though.

 

“You awake?” Aramis mutters.

 

“Sort 'a,” Porthos mutters back, not opening his eyes.

 

“She needs breakfast,” Aramis mutters.

 

“My back,” Porthos says, grinning.

 

“I hate you,” Aramis says, but gets up.

 

Porthos follows them to the kitchen, limping. He sits gingerly, with a wince.

 

“Did I ever remember to bring painkillers here?” Porthos asks.

 

“That bad? Yeah, you've got some stuff in the bathroom. What do you need?”

 

Porthos is left to feed Izzy while Aramis gets him meds. She likes it when he pretends to be an aeroplane, but she still throws mango at his head. It gets in his hair. Aramis laughs at him. He also picks the mango out and gives him painkillers, so Porthos forgives him.

 

“Any plans today?” Aramis asks.

 

“Gotta go home, pick up some clothes and do some laundry. Athos wants me to make him more freezer-dinners, apparently he only has soup left and doesn't like soup this month. I thought I'd make some bread. Probably not, though, if my back's still sore.”

 

“Feeling alright?”

 

“Mm. Might take a nap with Izzy, when she goes down. Bit achey.”

 

Aramis nods, pressing a kiss to Porthos' curls.

 

“We need to have sex, tonight. I want sex. Do you think your Dad'll take her?”

 

“Probably. I'll ask. Not gonna be up for much, though. Maybe we should ask him to take her during the day, and having living-room floor sex. My back'll like that better.”

 

“Alright.”

 

Treville agrees to come take Izzy out for the day, and Aramis and Porthos grin at each other.

 

**

 

“Bless you!” Porthos calls, when he gets in to hear Aramis sneeze. Athos sneezes soon after. “Bless you!”

 

“Did you bring us soup?” Athos croaks.

 

“Nope. Brought you nothing. There's soup in the fridge, like I told you this morning,” Porthos says, going through to the living-room.

 

“Take the baby,” Aramis croaks. “She's hungry and cross. She's giving us a headache.”

 

Porthos takes Izzy and dances her to the kitchen, singing to her. He looks through the cupboards, and gets the soup out, and puts the kettle on.

 

“Shall we make our sickies some dinner? Maybe some lemon and honey? Hmm? Yeah, baby, I know they're grumpy. Let's make you dinner first, eh?”

 

“Moogie, moogie,” Izzy says, making grabby-hands at the lemons Porthos got out.

 

“Uh-uh. That's yucky moogie. Let's get you yummy moogie, yeah baby? What about… what shall we have tonight? Pasta? Nah, you're right, not pasta. Some soup? No. Boring. I know, lets heat up some of the shepherd's pie. Mm that'll be yummy. Me and you can have pie, and the sickies can have soup.”

 

Porthos makes her dinner first and sets her up in the high-chair. Athos bought it a few weeks ago, which had made Porthos weep. Athos had hit him around the head and called him a fish. He'd been embarrassed. Izzy chatters away to herself, making the animals on the high-chair talk back, giving them bites of food. Porthos keeps an eye on her while warming the soup through, pausing now and then to help her get the food actually into her mouth. Athos has a sneezing fit.

 

“Bless, you alright?” Porthos asks, stifling his amusement.

 

“We're out of tissues,” Athos croaks.

 

Porthos goes to get a fresh box from the bathroom, and drops it on Athos' chest, resting a hand on his cheek to check for fever. Athos has one, Aramis doesn't. They're watching TV, though Aramis is actually asleep, snoring congestedly.

 

“How are you feeling?” Porthos asks Athos.

 

“Lousy,” Athos says. “Aramis is getting better, it's not fair.”

 

“Bless you,” Porthos says.

 

“I didn't-” Athos cuts himself off with a huge sneeze, and Porthos laughs, patting his cheek and going back to Izzy and the soup.

 

“Ba! Ba!” Izzy yells, scowling at him.

 

“I'm not bad, I needed to get tissues for Athos. I guess the soup's prob'ly hot now, eh? You want some yoghurt? Yoyo?”

 

“Yoyo,” Izzy says, nodding. Then she throws her teething ring at him, laughing happily.

 

“No, don't throw things, Iz. That's naughty, isn't it?”

 

“Ba Iz,” Izzy says, pleased as punch.

 

Porthos sighs, but gives her the yoghurt. He's tired, and he's hungry. He's been tending to Athos and Aramis all week, and working, and doing a lot of the night-looking-after for Izzy. She sleeps much better now, but she gets dreams and needs changing sometimes. She's also started throwing things at him. She throws her bowl at him when he walks past. He confiscates the rest of her dinner things and plucks her up, resting her on his hip while he prepares a tray of soup, bread, lemon and honey, and paracetamol for Athos.

 

He takes Izzy through to the living-room, looks at Aramis sleeping, looks at Athos. Athos glares. Porthos wakes Aramis and leaves Izzy with him, going to get the tray.

 

“Take her back,” Aramis says. “I want to eat. Some peace. Head hurts. Why don't I get meds?”

 

“You don't have a fever, and I know you. You've been popping paracetamol all day.”

 

“Haven't.”

 

“He has,” Athos says.

 

Porthos takes Izzy back to the kitchen before Aramis can argue. Aramis has got to the complaining stage of illness. Porthos eats one handed, letting Izzy chew on the other. She eats some of his dinner, and then she screams because she's bored. Aramis complains. Porthos takes her to have a bath and then takes her to the bedroom and lies down with her, head pounding.

 

“Porthos. Porthos!”

 

Porthos sighs as he wakes. He rolls over, staring blurrily up at Aramis.

 

“Wha'?”

 

“Athos wants you. He thinks his fever's gone up.”

 

Porthos rolls off the bed.

 

“Take Izzy,” Aramis says. “I'm tired. I want to sleep. Oh, hey, you could sleep with her in the living-room. I'm sure I'll feel better for a full-night's sleep.”

 

“So would I,” Porthos mutters.

 

He takes Izzy, though. Athos is fine, just whiney and clingy. Porthos sleeps in with him, instead of in the living-room, and checks his fever when Izzy wakes at two. She wakes again at four, restless and unhappy. Porthos hugs her, rocking, and has a horrible, stomach-flipping moment of remembered alone-ness. That unwanted, rejected feeling that's part of his memories as far back as he remembers.

 

“'s alrigh', baby. We're loved, promise. I've got you, sweets. Got you right 'ere. Love you, I love you, I promise. Right 'ere, baby,” Porthos murmurs. “Sweetheart.”

 

“Porthos?” Athos whispers.

 

“Sorry, didn' mean to wake you.”

 

“It's okay. You alright?”

 

“Tired. Think she had a bad dream.”

 

“Did you? Have a bad dream?”

 

“No. Just a bad memory.”

 

“Oh. Come snuggle, then. How's my fever?”

 

“God, shut up, you barely have a fever. It's something like thirty eight.”

 

“Still a fever,” Athos says, stubbornly. “I'm sick.”

 

“I noticed,” Porthos says.

 

Athos sneezes. Very pointedly. Porthos sighs. Izzy's asleep, though, so Porthos cuddles with Athos until he falls asleep again. Izzy wakes again at five, and Porthos gets up with her, stumbling to the kitchen to get her some breakfast. She throws her sucky-cup of water at him and yells when he tries to give her porridge. He gives her milk and fruit mush instead. She's supposed to have more substantial breakfasts, but he's tired and she's grouchy, so he gives her milk and mush.

 

“I thought she was lactose intolerant?” Athos asks, shuffling in yawning.

 

“Mm-hmm. 's fake milk. Lactose free.”

 

“My fever's up.”

 

Porthos checks it and rolls his eyes, tugging Athos into a cuddle.

 

“You're so clingy when you're sick,” Porthos says. “Are you okay? Other than sick.”

 

“Yep,” Athos says, and sneezes several times into Porthos' shoulder, letting out a contented 'ahh' when he's finished.

 

“Blow your nose. Have you covered me in snot? You have, haven't you? Again,” Porthos says, turning to get a box of tissues off the side and pushing them to Athos' chest, going to the sink to wipe his shoulder. “Go back to bed, why are you up?”

 

“Can't sleep,” Athos says, waiting for Porthos to turn then latching on again.

 

“Yoyo!” Izzy shouts, throwing her bottle at Athos.

 

“Nope,” Porthos says. “You could have some porridge. Mm, yummy porridge.”

 

“Porridge is horrible,” Athos says.

 

Izzy laughs happily, throwing her spoon at Athos, too. Athos sneezes on Porthos.

 

“Go to bed, Athos. Or lie on the sofa, I don't care. Stop encouraging the baby and stop sneezing on me.”

 

Aramis, when he gets up, is feeling mostly better. He takes Izzy for a bit, then has a nap, then plays with her while Porthos babies Athos. Athos naps in the afternoon, and Porthos makes everyone more soup and lemon and honey.

 

“I'm tired,” he says, flopping onto the sofa on top of Athos' feet, leaving the tray on the coffee table.

 

Aramis comes and puts Izzy on his chest, and Athos extracts his feet.

 

“I'll take Iz home tomorrow,” Aramis says. “I'm better, and I don't want to catch it again from Athos. You can get some rest. You can come rest at mine, if you like.”

 

“No he can't,” Athos says, still croaky and congested. “He has to stay with me. I have a fever.”

 

“I don't think you do, actually,” Porthos says, waving his hand around until he catches Athos' forehead. “Nope. You feel cool again.”

 

“I'm still sick,” Athos says, coughing pathetically.

 

Aramis and Porthos exchange grins. Porthos promises to stay with Athos, though, which makes him happy.

 

**

 

Porthos catches the cold, eventually. He calls in sick, to both work and the library, and lies on his bed, buried under a mound of blankets, sweating out a fever. He just wants to be left alone, but Athos insists on trying to be helpful. He even tries to make soup. He just about manages tea and honey, but the soup is mostly just stock and water and mostly raw carrots.

 

“Go away,” Porthos grumbles, when Athos brings him a fourth, cold bowl of the stuff.

 

“It's good for you,” Athos insists.

 

“No it isn't. It's just carrots and salt, that's good for no one. Let me be miserable in peace, would you?”

 

“I rang Aramis. He laughed and told me he was staying far away. Apparently he doesn't want to catch it again. Plus, he says, you've been texting him and told him to fuck off and leave you alone. He said you sounded grumpy. You are grumpy.”

 

“Athos, shut up.”

 

“I know, I have a good idea,” Athos says, and leaves.

 

Porthos wallows in the quiet. Then he gets suspicious, and shuffles out in time to see Athos opening the door to let Treville in. Porthos sighs, coughs, and goes to get dressed. He goes to Aramis', ringing the doorbell until Aramis answers. Izzy's resting on his shoulder, looking cried out.

 

“Just let me sleep in the spare room. I promise, you won't even know I'm there,” Porthos begs.

 

Aramis lets him in, laughs at him, and then leaves him to sweat out his fever in peace.

 

**

 

“The thing about fairies is that once you go down into their hill, and hear their music, and taste their fruit, there's no escape. But the thing about humans is that they rarely want to escape, especially when, like Sparrow Hawk, there's little family or friendship waiting,” Porthos says, leaning forwards. “Sparrow Hawk has light in her hair, sun on her skin, music in her heart. She dances like the wind, whirling, in the arms of Dainty. They live happily ever after, under that hill, and the sleeping witch never, ever finds them.”

 

Izzy, sat at the very front, her face lifted to him, claps happily along with the others. She plants her hands firmly on the floor and pushes her butt in the air, getting unsteadily to her feet, and toddles over to him while hands raise in the air with questions. She leans on his knee, head resting on his thigh, and gazes up at him. Porthos answers a few questions, then scoops Izzy up and gets to his feet, looking around for Aramis. Aramis has taken the opportunity to run away, though.

 

“Isn't she adorable? Is she yours?” a woman asks, coming over.

 

“Sort of,” Porthos says.

 

“How old is she?”

 

“Eleven months. Constance! Hey, good to see you,” Porthos says, waving Constance over to join the conversation and hopefully carry it. Constance gives him a quick scowl, then a fake smile. She's got two charges with her today.

 

“Pip, Pip,” Izzy says, patting his cheek.

 

“Mm? What's it, Iz?”

 

“Poop,” Izzy says, proudly.

 

“Right. Nappy change. See you later, Connie.”

 

Porthos takes her through to the changing room and she sings to him, playing with her feet, while he changes her. When they come out, Aramis is waiting, leaning on the wall munching on a sausage roll. He grins and holds up a paper bag.

 

“You know what G-I-F-T-S,” Aramis says.

 

“You've already filled Athos and my entire spare room with you know whats,” Porthos points out.

 

Izzy roars, twisting in Porthos arms. She's in the middle of 'row, row, row your boat', and the lion seems to want to go tumbling. Or maybe running. Porthos catches her, and his back pops.

 

“Oh shite. Iz, stay still a sec, I've done me back again,” Porthos says.

 

“Ow,” Izzy says, pushing her hand into Porthos' face. She stays still, though. She's learnt this. “Sore Pip. Dada! Sore Pip.”

 

“Yeah, I've got it baby,” Aramis says, taking her from Porthos. “Where's your pushchair, nene?”

 

“Pip,” Izzy demands.

 

“We'll get him on the way back. Where's your carriage, my lady?”

 

That gets her attention, and she wriggles down, toddling back into the children's library. Porthos waits, stretching gingerly. It doesn't feel too bad, this time. Constance comes out and rolls her eyes at him, then chases Tommy, her older charge, before he can climb up onto the railing and fall down the stairwell.

 

“Thomas! Don't you _dare_ \- right, that's it. I quit,” Constance says.

 

“Thomas,” Porthos roars, putting on his best giant-voice. Thomas comes running, laughing, flinging himself at Porthos' legs. “Ow. Right, bad idea. Hullo, cub. What're you up to now?”

 

“I'm just making trouble,” Tommy says, head-butting Porthos' knee and then running off again. “Can't catch me, giant!”

 

“Thanks a bunch,” Constance says, running after him, Luke's hand held tight in hers, pushchair bouncing.

 

“Pip!” Izzy cries, from her pushchair.

 

Aramis wraps an arm around Porthos' waist and they go down in the lift. They drop Izzy off with Treville and go to Porthos' flat. Porthos lies on the living-room floor for half an hour, resting his back, and Aramis reads. And then they have enthusiastic sex, and lie in bed, panting and gasping. Porthos sighs contentedly.

 

“I love you,” Aramis says, softly, running a hand over Porthos' chest. “Every inch of you. Even when you're all sweaty and spunky and a little bit beached.”

 

“I am beached,” Porthos agrees. “That was great. You've got much quicker down there. Maybe one day I'll indulge you, and you can just do whatever you like with my arse. I can just nap till you're ready for the fun stuff.”

 

Aramis laughs, sprawling over Porthos' chest, kissing over his skin. Porthos guides him up and kissing him properly.

 

“I prefer sex where you're actually involved,” Aramis says, beaming. “I like all your noises. You're so noisy.”

 

“No point in being silent, eh? I love you too, you know.”

 

“I know. And Izzy, too.”

 

“I love Isabella very, very much. I tell her so all the time.”

 

“I know, I hear you telling her,” Aramis says, kissing Porthos again. “I wanted to ask you something.”

 

“Yeah? Go ahead.”

 

“It's a bit… I know it's only been six months, give or take a week or two. But, in three months it'll have been nine months, which is nearly a year. I know a baby's a big commitment.”

 

“Spit it out. I can't say no till you ask, can I?” Porthos says, laughing, scritching at Aramis' scalp.

 

“Oh, that's very nice, keep doing that. Um, where was I?”

 

“Babbling.”

 

“Right. Um, when I go back to work, I was thinking. Maybe you'd like to… I mean, it'll be nine months, and I'll be part time at least three, so that'll be a year. But… well, I thought maybe you'd like to look after her? When I go back? I get a good salary, and you hate Tescos. Maybe you could focus on doing something you actually like. Do some story-telling, look after Izzy, take her to theatre and singing things. She loves that kind of stuff.”

 

Porthos stares at Aramis. At Aramis' stupid, big, beautiful eyes, his worried crinkling face, his mouth going awry. He looks so hopeful and so gentle and so beautiful. Porthos kisses him for a while, soft and slow.

 

“I'd love that,” Porthos admits, at last. “I would like that a lot.”

 

“Really? Oh, that's great! That's fantastic. I mean, that's so amazing. I would only be working two or three days a week, to start with. Probably just one or two the first month. A lot of it I can do from home. Athos won't mind, if you're here? To have her here?”

 

“Nah, she's growing up. It's only babies that scare him. She's walking and practically talking, now. She called him 'tia' the other day and he nearly cried,” Porthos says, grinning.

 

“Ti _a_?”

 

“Yeah, like your sister. What's gender to a baby? Athos doesn't mind, he's a bit genderqueer anyway. I think he actually liked it,” Porthos says.

 

Aramis smiles, one of the full-blown ones that swallows him entirely, his whole physicality easing into the joy of it. Porthos kisses him, and kisses him, and sighs blissfully, and kisses him.


End file.
